


Drowning is No Sin

by psyraah



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyraah/pseuds/psyraah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They found Kain on the thirty-sixth day. Beaten, bloody, close to death. And though Jean has him back now—by some miracle gets to hold him again—they again have to struggle through something that they've both known before: coming home is not the same once you've been broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aka the self-indulgent kidnap hurt/comfort fic. For reference, this is some kind of post-Brotherhood timeline, but Ed has kept his automail arm and his alchemy. Also Hughes is alive.

The clock ticked, papers were shuffled, and he couldn’t breathe.

Thirty-six days.

Tomorrow would be the thirty-seventh. Thirty-six days worth of shadows building up beneath Mustang’s tired eyes, drawn tight with worry. Thirty-six days of Ed coming back to the office late each night, having run all over the city, to shake his head and say quietly, “nothing”. Thirty-six days in which the office had been all too quiet, not the least because of that missing “good morning everyone!” and bright laughter to fill the silence.

Thirty-six days going home to an empty house.

On the first day, when Kain hadn’t turned up at the office after his usual Tuesday one o’clock walk, they’d thought nothing of it. By the time the clock had ticked over to three, Jean had started to worry, but convinced himself that Kain had just gotten caught up in some friendly conversation with someone again—even though he’d had work to do for the Mustang, and Kain _hated_ disappointing the Brigadier General. But it had been broad daylight, with streets crowded and bustling. Nothing could possibly have happened. Nothing to worry about.

 

_Dark._

_That was the first thing Kain realised when he came to. He had no idea where he was though. The floor beneath his hands was cold, felt like the rough drag of concrete, and there was a dull ache in his head. How had he gotten here? What had he been doing?_

_Baffled, he sat up, and gradually the fog lifted so that memories startled to trickle back. He’d been on his walk; he remembered that much at least. There’d been that lady with the big fluffy golden retriever, then he'd stopped at that little café down the road to get a bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans to share at the office. There’d been an assortment of tiny chocolates as well, and he’d smiled as he asked some to be packaged up, thinking that Jean would enjoy them tonight when they curled up in front of the fire to wind down for the evening._

_Remembering them, he patted his jacket pocket, then sighed when he realised that someone had taken them. Most likely the someone whose voice he could hear coming muffled from another room. He probably had more pressing problems at the moment, but he was trying to keep that panic at bay. And it was a little disappointing, not the least because hunger was starting to gnaw at his stomach._

_Well, after the café…he’d been heading back to the office. Heading back, and then there'd been a little girl talking to him and telling him that there was a stray dog in the alley behind the shop where her parents worked, and could he please help, Mr Soldier?_

_And he’d followed the kid into the alley, noticed the dog, and then there’d been a flash of pain and blankness._

_When he realised what must have happened, Kain sighed. Ambushed because of a stray? He wasn’t certain of much right now, but he knew that it most definitely meant one thing._

_Jean was going to strangle him._

_Something clanked, and Kain straightened to attention. Then, remembering where he was—or rather, not knowing where he was—he slumped back down again and plastered his best look of fear and complete uncertainty across his features. The first impression most people had of him was a young, fresh-faced man, barely out of boyhood, and therefore not completely intelligent. From experience, Kain knew that there were advantages to playing the part, and he was more than willing to do so if that were the case._

_A faint whooshing noise, then light flooded through what looked like an open door, and Kain squinted as two silhouettes approached._

_“Shit, he’s tiny.”_

_“Sorry, sir,” Kain said, edging his voice almost into a whimper. “What’s happening, I was just trying to help—”_

_“Shut up,” a deep voice barked, and then there was a stinging pain in his arms as he was hauled up roughly. He stumbled as they frogmarched him out of the room towards the light, blinking owlishly as the brightness hit him._

_The room into which his cell opened up had barely anything in it. Concrete walls, no windows. There was a single steel table in the middle of the room, illuminated by white beams mounted on the ceiling. A stairway opposite the cell led upwards—probably meant that they were somewhere underground. Kain didn’t have any more time to observe his surroundings as he was forcibly pivoted to face a woman sitting at the table, blonde hair drawn back in a neat ponytail. Like the others in the room, she was dressed in all black._

_“Warrant Officer Fuery.” Her voice was husky, and Kain really didn’t like the way she was grinning at him._

_Kain made himself tremble. “Hello madam, could you please let me know—”_

_“Quiet. I didn’t ask you to talk.” Kain flinched, falling into silence, and tried not to be too obvious as he counted off her reinforcements: two held him now, one person holding each of his arms behind him; another two stood at the stairs; four flanked the woman, who was now punching numbers into a phone placed on the desk. Whatever this was, it really couldn’t be good, and Kain didn’t need the dark cell and dim lighting to tell him that. All the same, he fought every instinct that told him to struggle and run. Unarmed and disoriented, there were too many people for him to deal with right now._

_The woman directed a curt nod at the people behind Kain, and then he felt pressure on his shoulders. Knowing what they wanted, he folded to his knees immediately, letting himself be shoved to the ground. Leaning forward on the table, the woman propped one hand up under her chin, the other holding the receiver to her ear as she observed Kain as though he were a curious puzzle to be solved. Kain stared back for a moment or two before realising that it didn’t really fit the part of Meek and Useless Pawn, so he dropped his eyes to the floor in what he hoped looked like timid submission, even as his mind raced. There were only two groups of people that came to mind for him to be used as a hostage: either his parents, with their vast pool of wealth, or else it would be work-related. Kain suspected the latter. The fact that they were underground, the prison cell which had been readied, and the way these people held and conducted themselves spoke of a preparation and seriousness which he’d never seen on the rare occasion that their unit had dealt with ransom kidnappings._

_That conclusion made him extremely uneasy. Money was simple to give, and even though he hated the thought, he knew that his family would be quick to give anything if he was in any true danger. But the military? They didn’t like to make a habit of yielding to threats. Which meant that he might be here for a while._

_Either way, he hoped there would be answers soon._

 

The Chief’s phone had trilled at 3:46pm.

“Mustang.” Jean hadn’t been paying much attention, but then Mustang had been silent. Unusual, so Jean had perked his ears up. Nothing had drifted from Mustang’s office for a long time. And then—

“Release him.” Jean’s heart had jumped a little because what if—

“No. He knows nothing.” Mustang’s voice had been trembling—the unsteadiness was barely there, but Jean had known the man long enough to hear the slightest waver, the tiniest hitch in the usually smooth cadence. “He knows nothing. If it’s me you’re after then I will come, but release him.”

Jean had risen from his desk, walked to Mustang’s office, to see his commanding officer with one hand clutching the phone, the other gloved and clenched into a fist. He’d looked up to meet Jean’s eye, and Jean had been able to see his own worry reflected in the other’s man expression.

 

_“He might not. But what about you, Brigadier General?” So it was a military matter after all. Suddenly, Kain was shoved to the ground, and he let out a grunt as his face was pressed to the concrete floor roughly._

_“What would you do to get your subordinate back?” No, Kain thought. Don’t risk anythi—_

_Something slammed into his back, and pain rocketed through him._

 

A thump and a cry.

Jean knew that voice.

“I swear, I will come, just _leave_ him.” Distantly, Jean had been aware that Mustang had still been talking, but that noise had been meaningless against the one echoing in his head.

It had been Kain. Kain hurt, and a thousand terrible images had raced around in Jean’s mind: Kain gritting his teeth against the pain of a blow; Kain, bleeding out on the floor; Kain’s eyes staring glassily at nothing, empty, empty...

 

_Agony was ripping through him, and then they yanked his uniform jacket off and the stinging blows became all the harsher. He knew how this worked, but he couldn’t help the cries that spilled from his lips at every burst of pain, even knowing that it was what they were after, knowing it was why they had the Brigadier on the phone._

_Hazy, Kain tried to get one arm under himself to push upwards off the floor, but a bruising grip around his wrist swiftly put that idea to an end. The first dregs of panic were starting to bubble as someone wrenched his arm up behind his back, shoving his head roughly back down to meet the cold concrete with the_ crack! _of his glasses breaking._

_Then the blows stopped, and they released him, panting and aching. Oh, this was not going to be good. Someone hauled him back up and dragged him, stumbling, back to the dark room where he’d been, and dumped him unceremoniously on the floor. One last glimpse of the light before the door clattered shut, blanketing him in pitch black to the grating sound of a lock sliding home._

_Sucking in breaths through gritted teeth, Kain prodded and felt along his back and sides; nothing felt broken, although he flinched whenever his fingertips brushed a particular vicious bruise. This wasn’t good at all. He’d have to think some way out._

_Without his jacket, the room was cold, so Kain curled up and rubbed his arms in a vain attempt to stay warm. More muffled words came through what he now knew was the door, and as he held himself in the dark and cold, he strained to pick up every word, every scrap of information he could to file away to use._

_“Think about what you would do, Brigadier General. Think of every day that I am spending with your Warrant Officer. I’ll be in touch soon, and I hope that when the time comes, you’ll do what’s right.”_

 

“No, I—shit!” The receiver had been slammed back down, and then Mustang had marched past Jean—who was still frozen, horrific images racing in his mind—out into the open office.

“Everyone, drop what you’re doing,” Mustang had said sharply. “Someone has Fuery. We’re going to find him.”

But thirty-six days later, they still hadn’t.

* * *

_They hadn’t been entirely unpleasant; for the most past it was the bad balancing out with not so bad. Hunger gnawed at his stomach constantly, and his throat felt like the desert, but they hadn’t hurt him too badly. A cough was building in his chest, but they hadn’t tied him up or anything. The dark was driving him mad, but he was clinging on. Every now and again (he had no idea what the time was), someone would come in with a sandwich and a bottle of water. It wasn’t enough, wasn’t nearly enough to soothe his aching throat and hollow stomach. But it was something._

_No, they weren’t entirely unpleasant. And Kain had been pleasant to them, thanking them for the food, trying to keep up conversation. Although after some time had passed, he’d stopped the latter because it hurt to talk for too long. But still, he made very effort to be amicable. Polite. Completely harmless._ _So that one day, when the door swung open—admitting that blessed light—and someone stepped through with Kain’s food, there was only one other person guarding the door instead of the five they had started off with. Kain gave a quiet “thank you” as the plate and bottle were placed on the floor, then darted an arm out to twist around the woman’s neck and slam her to the floor. Heart racing, he sprang to his feet, bolted for the door and dealt with the only other person on guard. Panting, adrenaline and vicious hope crawling up his parched throat, he raced up the stairs—but they led nowhere. There was simply a ceiling._

_Disappointment crashed down. But…they had to get in somehow, right? And this was the only entrance or exit, and there wasn’t any use to stairs that just stopped. This had to be it._

_Shouts came from behind him, and he knew that any time there would be more of them coming down this exact entrance. He had to leave before that. Footsteps pounded up the stairs, so Kain whirled around and grabbed the man’s arm to pull him stumbling close, and then shove him back down to tumble into his companion._

_Turning back to the exit, his gaze swung left, then right, vision blurred without his glasses but he just needed to—_

_A switch._

_Heart pounding, he slammed his hand against the button on the wall, and then miraculously, light was streaming in above his head and he was almost out—_

_Another hand on his arm, and once again he turned. But then there was the other, and they’d grabbed his arms and one was also sweeping his legs out from under him—_

_Then he was tumbling down the stairs, still-healing bruises singing as he bumped and bashed his way back to the concrete floor._

_Light was flooding in from above now, then there were other figures rushing in. Someone fisted a hand in his hair and others pinned his arms by his sides as they dragged him to his feet, even as he struggled and snarled because he was so damn close, stupid not to think it through, he had to get home, damn it._

_“Stop.” It took a brief moment to register the gun at his throat in his fuzzy vision, and then he stopped moving, breath coming harshly as the cold steel was shoved against his neck. The blonde woman was back and staring down at him, calculating gaze raking him up and down._

_“You’re really not as docile as we thought,” she said. Kain said nothing, merely glared back up at her as his bruised body screamed its complaints at him._

_“And not nearly as polite anymore. You’ve been having us on, Warrant Officer.” Only an idiot wouldn’t notice, he thought, but still said nothing, seething as he sucked in ragged breaths through his teeth, yanking against the hands that held him even though it was futile. Clucking her tongue, the woman shook her head._

_“That makes me decidedly unhappy,” she told him. “There must be some punishment meted out. But while we’re here, now is probably a good a time as any to put through a call to your friends.”_

 

They’d bugged Mustang’s phone, hooked it up as he waited for a call, and he’d pounced on it every time it rang as Jean’s heart pounded. But for so long, they hadn’t heard back. The next one didn’t come until day twenty-two, and Jean had heard it coming back from the bathroom.

 

_“Brigadier General. It’s Warrant Officer Fuery’s friend once again. How are you?”_

_Damn it, no. This wasn’t meant to happen. He was meant to get back to them, not worry them more and cause them more work. Distant sounds, and Kain’s heart was pounding, and he tried vainly to tug at the tight grip circling his arms, biting down a cry as someone yanked on his hair._

_“Of course you may greet him, but only for a moment.” Now she stood up and turned to Kain, placing the receiver against his ear, and Kain heard the crackle of static and an unsteady breath across the line._

_“Warrant Officer, what’s your status?” The Brigadier sounded tired. I’m sorry, Kain wanted to say. I tried._

_He wet his lips and tried to make his voice as smooth as possible._ _“Brigadier General Mustang, sir.” Damn it, he could probably hear how Kain’s voice rasped. “Alive and well.”_

_“I’m glad to hear.” His commanding officer was exhausted, and Kain hurt because he knew that he would be providing little comfort to the other man. “We’re worried, but we—all of us. We’re okay.”_

_Kain swallowed, or tried to, at least. God, he was thirsty. He knew what went unsaid in the words: Jean. Jean was okay. He would be worried, but as long as he wasn’t running himself into the ground, as long as he wasn’t broken because Kain had broken him, then it was all right._

_But Kain still missed him to the point of aching._

_“Thank you, sir, I’m—” Abruptly, the phone was removed and the woman was once again speaking._

_“I told you only to greet him, nothing more.”_

_“I apologise, I was just concerned,” Roy’s voice rushed out. “I’m very sorry.” The woman let out a snort, but her grin was big enough to register even in Kain’s blurry vision, and dread filled him._

_“Well, you’re not the only one to disappoint me today. Your subordinate tried to escape before.”_

_“…he’s a resourceful man.”_

_“Yes,” the woman said, and she brought her face right in front of Kain’s. “He really is. The youthful innocence front is quite deceptive. But I don’t like being deceived.”_

_The person to Kain’s left shifted, and the grip on his left arm changed. He felt two hands circling it almost painfully, and when the woman looked up and nodded at the person behind him, it slowly dawned on him what was coming._

_Heart pounding, he stared straight ahead as the grip tightened._

_“I don’t like being deceived, and I must say, I’m very disappointed.”_

_Just do it already, just do it, stop waiting, stop dragging this out…_

_“No, there’s not much you can do about it. I’m upset at your subordinate. So he’s the one who has to pay for it.”_

 

“It doesn’t have to be like this. I’ll give you what you want. I will come personally. But release Warrant Officer Fuery.” Mustang’s voice had been tired, worn with worry. “I—wait—no, I can’t do that, I don’t have that kind of authority. If you give me some time—”

 

_And then Kain felt his skin pinch, the muscles in his left arm pulling, and he gritted his teeth and stared ahead, thinking about something, anything else._

_Warm arms around him and being pulled into a strong embrace. Calloused hands on his waist. Blue eyes bright with laughter in the autumn light and long fingers wrapping around his own as they strolled next to the water—_

_The sound registered first, a deceptively quiet_ crack! _of a breaking bone that Kain had never heard before._

_Then came the pain._

 

Someone was screaming.

 _Kain_ was screaming.

Jean had walked in to see Mustang grit his teeth, and squeeze his eyes shut against the cries that rang out from the phone.

“Please,” Mustang had said weakly, eyes still clenched shut. “Give me some time, and I will talk to my superiors. Yes, we put her away, but I don’t have the power to get her back out for you, not alone.”

 

_A thousand daggers, a million bolts of lightening racing up his arm, through his body. Kain thought he heard himself whimper, and he tried—but failed—to hold back the screams that were wrenched from him, because that was what they wanted. But his arm was one big, greasy wave of pain, and the very act of screaming had his throat burning, and god, his arm, his arm. Agony tearing up raw nerves, nauseous waves rolling through his stomach, and spots dancing in his vision._

_Someone brushed his arm and he cried out, then cruel hands gripped and twisted._

 

Another scream. The barest sob.

Another crack down Jean’s heart.

“I will try, but please, just—” And then Mustang’s shoulders had slumped, receiver clattering on the desk. On a sigh, he had scrubbed his hands across his face.

“Hawkeye.” His voice had come out muffled. “See if the trace on that one worked. If not—”

“Why didn’t you just do what they wanted?” Jean had spilled rapid fury to keep down the horror threatening to burst out. “Why didn’t—you’re meant to be the smooth talker, you’re tellin’ me you couldn’t save him?”

Mustang had looked up, and Jean had deliberately ignored the stubble speckling his chin and the worn out look in dark eyes. “Lieutenant, they were asking me to release a terrorist,” had been the quiet reply. “Even if I had the power to do that, I’m not sure I would.”

“You bastard.” He’d taken two steps and hauled Mustang up out of his chair to shake him like a rat. “This is Kain we’re talkin’ about, not jus’ some chess piece—”

“Lieutenant, stand down.”

“That all we are to you? I thought you were better!”

“I said, stand down, Lieutenant!” Roy had shoved him away, panting. “I know perfectly well who we’re talking about, and I would gladly give my life for him. But I cannot, I _will_ not endanger the lives of others—”

“So what, we’re just gonna leave ‘im to die?”

“He knew what this was when he signed on! He knew, and I trust him to know.”

“He trusted you too,” Jean had said scathingly. “He trusted you to keep ‘im safe. Now look where we are.” And Mustang had—shut up. Gone completely silent. And there had been a long moment where they had stared at each other, and Jean had known from the broken look on Mustang’s face that he had pushed too far but he hadn’t given a fuck.

Then Hawkeye had reached for his arm and guided him away to his desk where his rage had withered away to terror, and he’d sobbed for an hour.

* * *

_The dark._

_They pushed him back into the dark, and now they bound him. Ironically, he’d probably been more of a threat before the incident, but they weren’t taking any chances. Chains had been clasped around his wrists, holding down even his broken arm, the arm that shook and had sobs curling in his throat whenever it so much as shifted. They’d throw him back in here, clamped a collar roughly around his neck that dragged and chafed against soft skin. The food and water still came, and they would yank him back by the metal that dug into his neck when he didn’t have the energy to eat, shove it into his mouth even as he choked._

_And god, he’d been stupid, stupid, stupid, because now the game was up. Now they knew that he was more than a pawn, more than an empty-headed technician, and they used it._

_“Where is she being kept?”_

_“I d-don’t know. T-two hundred and nine,” Kain repeated for what seemed like the thousandth time, breath harsh across his tongue, every inhale searing his parched throat. “Two hundred and nine.”_

_“Warrant Officer Fuery, I will ask again. Where is she?”_

_“I don’t know. Two hundred—” Kain screamed when the thin, jagged blade—lodged in the soft flesh beneath his collarbone—sank deeper, ran hot wire through every nerve in his body. Nausea twisted at his gut and he retched, but there was nothing left to throw up._

_“Please, I don’t know,” he begged, struggling weakly to get away from the piercing burn in his shoulder. But firm hands held him easily where he was, kneeling on the hard ground with the cold seeping into his bones and blood drenching his shirt._

_“I think you’re lying.”_

_It hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to be._

_“I don’t know. Two hundred and nine.”_ _A cry tore unbidden from his throat as the blade was pulled out, and no, no, no, he knew what came next—_

_“Two hundred and nine!” he screamed it, shouted it, sobbed the mantra he’d trained his mouth to form as fingers dug mercilessly into his broken arm, kneaded the torn muscle and had pain sing through every shredded nerve of his body. Then someone yanked on the collar and even screaming became a luxury as his cries were choked off, allowing no reprieve as he struggled to take in air, and the familiar metal grated against torn skin._

_The faint light that streamed through the open door into the cell was fading, and the voice which addressed him was distant._

_“Where is she held?”_

_Two hundred and nine._

_Two hundred and nine._

_Kain gasped, lungs aching, as both the chain and his arm were released. Trembling uncontrollably, he tried to still his racing heart and slow his panting as he hung his head, feeling warm blood trickle down his side._

_“Two hundred and nine,” he said, on a shuddering, broken breath, when at last he did speak. Everything ached, and his limbs felt like they were made of water. “Two hundred and nine.” A long silence_

_"All right then._ _I need this room colder."_

 _At that, Kain's head snapped up, the motion making his head spin._ _"No, please don't, no," he rasped frantically. "Please—"_

_"Then where is she being held, Warrant Officer?" The face that looked down at him might have been stern, had Kain actually been able to see in the dim light without his glasses, one eye swollen and blood dried on his lashes. But god, even without seeing, Kain’s whole being begged him to yield, ached to tell, to just say one location and have everything end. It would just take two words: the name of one of the high-security prisons scattered throughout the country, the name which his interrogators were desperate to know. Two words so that they would no longer need him, and this would be at an end, one way or another._

_But he knew what was at stake, what had been lost the last time that alchemist had been free. He lowered his head once more._

_“Two hundred and nine,” he croaked, because god, he needed to remember, couldn’t risk forgetting._

_Another heavy silence, and then the clopping of boots signalled his captors’ exit. A hand pressed firmly against his injured shoulder, disregarding the whimper of pain it drew out. Blue light sparked to have the skin knit together over yet another scar, but the torn muscle beneath remained, pain still pounding through with every beat of his heart._

_The grip on his arms disappeared, and without that support, Kain crashed to the ground, unable to hold himself up. Then the sound of more distant footsteps, which grew ever fainter. But the door didn’t clang shut, and there was still light. Someone was still with him._

_“It would be easier on you if you just obeyed.” Kain jolted at the murmur in his ear. “Just a little bit of information. It’s not like it’s important. Just one location, that’s all we need.”_

_The words were balanced on the tip of his tongue, fighting to get past gritted teeth._

_But…_

_Two hundred and nine two hundred and nine two hundred and nine two hundred and nine two hundred and nine_

_“Only one location, and then this will all be over,” the man continued, and Kain just wanted to curl away from that voice whispering in his ear, all the harder to resist because it echoed his own thoughts. “We might not even kill you. We’re actually very nice, and I would be happy to make your stay a lot more comfortable.” The fingers that traced Kain’s lips were not at all ambiguous about what kind of comfort that would be._

_And somehow beneath the cold and helplessness, through the thick fog that just wanted to drag him under, Kain found room for rage._

_No one was allowed to touch him like that. How could this piece of slime think that whatever he was offering could hold a candle against being home, being safe, against what he had with Jean? The very thought of that—that these people had dared to take him away and keep him from going home—had anger snarling in his throat to lash out and clamp his teeth around the man’s thumb._

_A shout of pain, and fierce satisfaction that tasted faintly of metal on his tongue. But then regret came almost immediately when solid steel was pulled roughly against his windpipe. Kain released the finger on a strangled gasp, tried to scrabble backwards to relieve the drag of metal against the torn skin of his throat, but he jerked when the weak movements had pain singing up his arm, and god he couldn’t breathe and it burned and his throat ached—_

_“You just have to obey, is it that hard to understand? You’re going to rot in here. Your friends aren’t coming to get you any time. Mustang won’t do it, not for you.” Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, he didn’t want to die down here in the cold and dark, but he couldn’t breathe—_

_Kain let out a gasped-out groaning cough when the chain was finally released and a foot nudged his arm idly, sending pain ripping up._

_“Idiot.” The man retreated, and the door clanged shut once more to leave Kain alone with the dark pressing down._

_He didn’t know if they had actually followed through on the promise of lowering the temperature. Doesn’t matter anyway, he thought dully. Not when the cold had seeped into his bones, had his teeth chattering, fingers almost permanently numb except for those occasional, blessed moments when the room was warmed up._

_After all, they didn’t want to kill him._

_So tired. Just needed to sleep. Needed to be home, wrapped in his soft blue blanket, fingers carding through hair still damp from the shower. He had to get back to that. Had to stay alive until someone came._

_So despite aching muscles that felt drained of life, Kain huddled into himself as best he could, ignoring the violent shaking, ignoring the pain. Had to stay alive. The Brigadier, the team, none of them would give up on him, and damn it, Jean would be here. He knew that. They would be looking for him, and that thought was the tiniest bit of warmth in his freezing cell._

_So he waited._

* * *

Mustang hadn’t left the office since the last call. Fourteen days later, and Jean didn’t think he’d actually gone home once, because there were two pillows and a blanket on the couch in Mustang’s office. They’d appeared after Ed had stormed in ten nights ago, and the two had screamed at each other about empty beds and running into the ground until the door to Roy’s office had slammed shut and all had been silent.

That night, Ed hadn’t left either.

It took Jean less time to get home now, without stopping by flower bushes and talking to dog owners. He kept cooking too much food, still expecting there to be one more mouth to feed. And the other day he’d walked by Kain’s favourite café, stopped to admire the assortment of bouquets that were on display out the front and thought that it’d bring a smile to Kain’s face if he bought one—

The door to the office clicked open, and Hughes walked in with Ed on his heels.

“We have it,” Hughes announced, and Jean's heart leapt. The hope almost choked him, but he was so deathly afraid, because what if Kain was—no. He couldn't think like that. Kain was strong. Kain would be waiting.

Mustang emerged from his office, gloves on. Once Hughes had run through the layout of the house—in the middle of fucking Central, how had no one noticed?—Mustang surveyed his team. Met everyone’s eye but Jean’s.

The fucking _dickhead_.

“Move out,” he said quietly, and then the worn, tired expression on his face turned hard. “I’m going to burn these bastards.”

And Jean didn’t know what Kain would think of him, but all he could think was _yes, yes, yes_.

* * *

When they’d arrived, Mustang had pulled him aside for a moment.

“We’ll go in first, clear the building,” he’d said quietly. “You and Ed go and find Fuery. When you do, let us know where you are, and guard him with your life.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that, _sir_ ,” he’d said, walking back to the group, ignoring the way Mustang had flinched for just the briefest of moments.

Now, he was running, running, running, Ed’s footsteps lightly echoing his own. They’d sent for Al as soon as they’d known, had told him to come, just in case—after all, he did know medical alchemy. They quickly searched every room in the house. But with every one that came up empty Jean’s heart twisted more until he was sure it was going to burst, and the panic in his chest rose higher in his throat.

“Fuck!” He kicked a chair in frustration and desperate fear when they burst into another room, only to have no one to meet them. He span around, trying to figure out a clue, _anything_ , but they’d covered most of the fucking property as Mustang co-ordinated the arrest outside, and still fucking nothing.

“Wait, Havoc.” Ed crouched down, staring at a spot on the floor in the corner of the room. “I think…” Hope sprang—both unwanted and desperately needed—as Jean rushed over, and Ed was leaning over, inspecting a spot on the floor. At the angle he was looking down at, Jean could just make out Ed’s frown as he removed a glove to run his fingernail over the floor. It caught on something, and that had Ed shuffling back.

“Yep, there’s a trapdoor.”

Jean’s heart leapt. “So we just find out how to—” A flash of blue light, and the floor disintegrated to reveal a set of stairs that led down into darkness.

“Why else do you think I was paired up with you?” Ed asked with a quirked eyebrow over his sunken eyes, waving Jean down the stairs. Jean started to rush off into the dark before he realised that he couldn’t see. Pausing to quickly produce a flashlight (wasting time, wasting _time_ ), he flicked it on before the two of them hurried down the stairs, Jean’s heart pounding with every step.

Navigation wasn’t hard; there was barely anything down here. The stairs dropped down to open up into a small room, and Jean blinked when there was a _click_ and washed out white light flickered to life to illuminate white walls and a concrete floor.

Opposite the stairs there was a single, metal door.

This had to be it, and suddenly Jean was hit by a simultaneous desire to break open the door, and the fearful urge to bolt back up the stairs.

“Ed…”

“On it.” A clap, more blue light on the door handle, and then the metal slab of the door was slowly swinging outwards. Nodding to Jean’s gun, Ed hooked one finger behind the door.

“Cover me.” Jean gave a curt nod, and Ed swung open the door to reveal a dark room.

The first thing that hit Jean was that the air was freezing, the chill almost burning his face.

The second was that the space was empty, except for a small figure, slumped over on its side, hands behind their back.

Even without the military blue pants and the tattered white shirt, Jean would have known who it was. From the light thrown through the open doorway and the weak flare of his torch, he could just make out the dull, dirty metal encircling Kain’s throat, rusted red in places and attached to a chain that was bolted to the floor.

They’d fucking collared him.

The million words and thoughts that had been racing around his brain for thirty-six days were stuck in his throat now. He had nothing to say, nothing to speak of the relief that was coursing through him alongside the pain and the ever-present fear. Luckily his feet knew what to do and had him rushing towards the figure on the floor at a sprint.

And when Kain flinched _—_ actually fucking _whimpered—_ from a gentle hand touching his shoulder, Jean saw red.

He would kill every last one of them.

“Two hundred and nine.” Kain’s voice was muffled against the floor, but Jean could still hear all too clearly the way it rasped and croaked with the slightest edge of desperation, which had another chasm tearing through his heart. The crackling cough that heaved Kain’s frame had it splitting clean in two. “Two hundred and nine.” It was only on the second repetition that Jean realised he had no idea what Kain was saying. God, what had they done to him?

“Kain,” he finally managed, and swallowed because if Kain didn’t recognise him it would _destroy_ him. “Kain, it’s okay. It’s Jean. You’re safe.” He was distantly aware that Ed had come up behind him, but nothing mattered more than the way Kain startled once more, then turned his head weakly to look up at Jean.

“Jean?” His voice cracked on the name, and in the dim light Jean saw that Kain was squinting up at him; the bastards had taken his glasses. Anger didn’t even cover what he was feeling. Deep, red rage, thick and sharp, harvested in a vicious storm as he took it all in. The bruised cheek, swollen eye, grimy hair. Blood across his temple. Sunken cheeks and dry skin. The constant shivering he could feel from where his hand rested on Kain’s shoulder, too warm against the coolness of Kain’s skin that he could feel even through the thin layer of the ragged shirt.

And the fucking collar that held him down like an animal.

“Yeah,” he breathed, not letting any of the rage eke out. “It’s Jean. It’s okay, you’re safe, Kain.”

“Really?” It was barely a whisper, but the disbelief in Kain’s voice, the way that he let his head fall back down as though exhausted from even lifting it, had Jean’s heart breaking yet again. “I thought—they said you wouldn’t…” Kain croaked, and the words were then followed by another rasping cough. “Don’t—don’t move me yet. I think m-my arm. Snapped?” He sounded bewildered. Tired, and confused. “It’s—they did something. Hurt.” Jean had to take a moment before he could offer the word.

“Broken?” he suggested softly, and how perfectly it described how he felt, sitting here hopelessly. With a shaking hand, he gently ran his thumb up and across Kain’s shoulder, needing to touch, to comfort, but not wanting to hurt. At the hint, Kain nodded slowly.

“Yeah. That’s it.” The words seemed to be dragged out on a breathed out slur. Jean went to say something, anything— _I’m sorry, I love you, you’re safe now, you’re safe, you’re safe, I love you so much, don’t leave_ —but then there was a hand on his shoulder and he whirled around, prepared to strike. But it was just Ed, brow creased in concern. He’d forgotten Ed was there.

“I know you wanna take care of him, but let me just get the chains off, all right?” Ed asked softly, hand reassuring, yet firm on Jean’s shoulder. “I’ve already radioed in Roy and the others, Al just got here so he can look after Fuery.” And Jean wanted to refuse, wanted to snarl and spit because no one was going anywhere _near_ Kain after what had happened. But he wasn’t an alchemist. He had no key, and the sight of the collar still resting against Kain’s skin, rubbed red and raw, was enough to have him nodding mutely and shuffle backwards on his knees, away from the tiny figure.

Blue light flashed in the dimly lit room, and Jean was just drinking in the way that Kain’s chest rose and fell shallowly, trembling though each breath may be. Another light and the metal clasped around Kain’s wrists disintegrated as well. The disappearance of the chain shifted his arm slightly, and Kain’s gasp-groan-cry had Jean’s heart stopping, eyes blown wide as he scrambled back across the grimy floor.

“Shit—sorry, Fuery. I didn’t—sorry. Fuck.” Ed’s voice was strained. There was a very long silence, and Jean’s heart lurched.

“S’okay,” came the reply eventually, very, very soft.

“Fuck.” Ed reached out to gently place two fingers against Kain’s neck. “Fuck,” he repeated, then he scrambled for the radio, barked out a quick “Al, _now_ ,” before shooting Jean a desperate look.

“His pulse is really, really weak,” he said lowly, urgently. “Al’s coming down now and Havoc, when he gets down here, I need you to stay out of the way.”

At that, Jean bristled. “Ed, what the—”

“You’ll only get in the way,” Ed said harshly. “This is Al’s area, and if you want Fuery to get through this you need to stand back.”

Jean gritted his teeth against the overwhelming urge to punch the kid in the face. “Fine,” he hissed. Sure, there wasn’t a thing he could do, so he’d leave it to the fucking alchemists who would get nothing done and dick around while his boyfriend was bleeding out on the floor and dying—no, Kain wasn’t dying. Kain was strong, Kain would be fucking fine, Jean, you idiot.

The constant shivering hadn’t stopped, and Jean wanted to shrug off his jacket and tuck it around Kain’s trembling form ( _wanted to gather him close and never let him go_ ). But he didn’t know if the wool—weighed down and heavy—would cause more pain than comfort. So instead, he took off the jacket and also removed his dress shirt underneath, spreading it to drape gently over Kain. Better than nothing, and hopefully it was light enough not to hurt him.

There was a crackle and a mutter behind him, and he didn’t realise at first, but then gave a startled jerk when he noticed that the concrete beneath his hand was warming. A rustle behind him, and half-turning, he saw Ed similarly undressed with the blue jacket on the floor. Nodding his thanks, he took Ed’s shirt and gently, _gently_ laid it on top of his.

“Thanks,” Kain murmured. Jean had always loved Kain’s voice, loved the way it was beautiful and bright. But he’d never thought that there would be a day when every cracked syllable would make his heart tremble with relief.

“It’s all right.” Jean swallowed. “Just—just hang on, all right? Stay awake for me, keep talking. The team’s on the way.”

Though Ed had warmed the floor, the air was still frigid, and Jean shoved his jacket back on quickly. Tension was singing through every nerve, but he forcibly gentled it so that his fingertips running lightly down Kain’s cheek were soft and soothing. Amongst the ragged breathing, there came the gentlest of sighs.

“’kay.” Very quiet. Too soft, and Jean’s heart was fluttering in panic again even as it plummeted. They’d been in tough spots before; being in the military, it came with the job. But, god, this was _Kain_. He wasn’t meant to be in the line of fire.

“Fuck, Kain.” A beat of silence, but Jean should’ve known that Kain would be a cheeky little _shit_ even now.

“I’d like that.” It was barely a whisper, but it was enough to have a sob lodge in Jean’s throat even as he smiled.

“Yeah,” he choked out. “It’d be good. As soon as we get back, yeah?”

Heart still lodged in his throat, Jean continued his gentle movements along Kain’s cheek as he waited for a reply. But there was nothing.

 _Fuck_.

“Kain?” he whispered. Still nothing, and his heartbeat was growing ever louder in his ears, damning the ringing silence. “Kain, no, _please_ talk to me.” Desperate, he fumbled for his torch again and beamed the light at the floor just beside Kain’s face to illuminate it (didn’t want the light to hurt his eyes, had to keep him _safe_ ). The angry purple bruise looked even worse lit up across his sunken, grimy cheeks. Kain’s eyes were closed, and no reply was coming.

“Hey, kid, come on.” Calling him that always got a reaction, whether it was a beautiful smile or a pretend sulk that would have Jean grinning and pulling Kain closer, and his boyfriend would squirm and laugh and pretend that he hated it when Jean pressed a kiss to his hair.

Kain’s eyes remained closed, and nothing showed that he’d even heard.

His own breath coming in desperate, shallow gasps now, Jean bent down to draw his head closer. Close enough to catch the faint rasps rhythmically floating in the air and just the simple fact that Kain was still _breathing_ sent relief rushing through him.

Behind him, Jean could make out the pad of footsteps and quiet, urgent words. But he didn’t care what was going on behind him; he just needed to hear one more shuddering light breath, watch Kain’s chest rise ever so slightly one more time because every moment it did so was one more where he got to hang onto the possibility that he wouldn’t be alone.

“Havoc."

Rise. Fall. In. Out.

“Lieutenant, stand aside.”

“No,” he growled. “No, I need to stay with him.”

“Lieutenant, let us help him.” And then there were firm hands around his arms to pull him back and he tried to throw them off, because _Kain_.

“Havoc, c’mon, let Al do his job. You can’t do anything more.” But that was his job, he was meant to be the one who looked after Kain. But then there were people surrounding the tiny bundle on the ground, flashing lights and bandages and a stretcher. Gradually, mind-numbing panic reduced to just a slight fog, and Jean realised that the hand that had a firm grip on his wrist was metal.

“We’ve already done what we can,” Ed said quietly. “Let them take care of him.”

Much as he hated it, much as it absolutely tore at him to still be useless, Jean realised that Ed was right. So he let Ed lead him out of the room—away from _Kain_ —to hover at the door, and watched in helpless anger and wretched fear as people rushed inside and barked orders. There was a delicate space around Kain’s still form, with Al frowning in concentration as he checked Kain over, the occasional glow of alchemy lighting up the room.

He looked so small. So fucking fragile.

Muted conversation bounced off the cold walls of the cell, and then Al stepped back to motion for the stretcher to be positioned.

“Okay, let’s get him out of here.”

Jean stiffened when Kain was lifted, unmoving, on the to the stretcher. He hadn’t seen if before, hadn’t been able to see Kain’s side because of the way he had been positioned on the floor and the dark of the cell. But as they wheeled him out, Jean saw that the right side of Kain’s shirt was stiff with dried blood, creeping down from his collar, dyeing his shirt sleeves.

“What—” He had to clear his throat, fight the urge to just gather Kain in his arms and not let go, instead channelling the urgent need to _do_ something into clasping Al’s arm desperately. “What’s all that blood from? What’d they do?”

“He’s not bleeding at the moment,” Al said quietly, watching as Ed turned part of the stairs into a ramp to accommodate the stretcher. “They must have an alchemist, because someone healed him over.” Jean was all too aware that Al had avoided the question. But he let it be, because what was more important was hurrying after that stretcher, following it up the stairs and back through the building out onto the open road, never letting it out of his sight.

“Havoc!” Jean looked over to see Mustang striding towards him, and Jean motioned to let him know that they’d found Kain.

Then he noticed a group of people, clad in black, sitting on the ground with Breda and Hawkeye standing guard around them. It didn’t register immediately, who they were, with his brain still slow from fatigue and anxiety.

But when it did, Jean saw nothing else.

It was them. They’d taken Kain. Taken Kain, ground him into dust, blood on his face and that god damn fear in the way he’d croaked his replies to Jean. They’d been working so fucking hard to be safe, to be _whole_ after the Promised Day, after fucking Aerugo, and then these fucking shitheads came along and tried to snuff that bright light out again. And Jean wanted nothing more than to make _them_ bleed, rip them to shreds, cocked his gun—

“Havoc, no!”

“Let me fucking—”

“No, Havoc, leave them!”

Jean snarled wordlessly, trying to drag his arm back from those who held it, because there was one fucking blonde bitch who was sitting on the ground, looking directly at him with knowing eyes.

“I’m gonna kill them, just fucking let me,” he snarled. “They had Kain, I’m gonna—”

“Lieutenant, _no_.” The woman’s face was obscured from Jean’s vision by the level gaze of brown eyes.

“You can’t do anything here,” Hawkeye said quietly, ignoring the way that Jean was still growling, desperately straining to shake Breda off, trying to wrench himself free from Ed’s grip on his wrist. “They’ll be punished, but that’s not your job. Go be with Fuery, he's the one who needs you now. The ambulance is leaving soon, and we’ve arranged for you to go but you need to be there now.”

He could barely remember how to breathe; the need to hurt was burning up his lungs.

“Hawkeye…”

“Be with him,” she repeated sternly, but the hand that rested on his arm was gentle. “We’ll deal with them. Go with Kain.”

And there was one more, desperate moment when Jean just needed to do _something_.

But Kain needed him. And if there was one thing in the world that Jean would move heaven and earth for, it was Kain. 

Jean slumped, all fight gone, and he nodded wordlessly. The others let go, and he hesitated for a moment before handing his gun over to Hawkeye.

“Yes, go be with him. He might not last long.” The mocking voice drifted from the ground as Jean turned his back, and he froze. “Your…Kain, you called him? He bled so wonderfully for me.”

The sting of his nails digging into his palms.

 _Kain_ , Jean thought, even as his body screamed for him to attack so he could eject the image of blood and torn flesh, forget what it was like to hear Kain scream. Kain was what was important, not some bitch that Jean wanted to tear apart with his bare hands, and every second he wasted here was one more keeping Kain from safety.

So Jean drew a shuddering breath, gritted his teeth, and miraculously managed to drag his feet to jog back to the ambulance, despite the weight that seemed to drown his entire being.

"Lieutenant!" Al was motioning him over, and Jean followed as they went up the ramp into the van after the stretcher, still bearing that tiny little figure. Jean took the seat inside the ambulance that Al had left for him, leaning forward as far as possible to watch Kain’s face. The way that it was marked and battered was all the more evident, now that there was light, and Jean just wished that there was something he could _do_ to make it go away.

"Will he...will he be all right?" It was barely whispered, because Jean didn't know if he could bare it if the answer was no.

"He will if I have anything to do with it," Al said, watching Kain closely, checking charts and little needles that had been fed into that small body. "We got there just in time, thankfully, and he's tough, Lieutenant. He's survived this much already. That weighs in his favour. Don't doubt his strength."

And there was nothing left for Jean to do other than trust in that. Trust Al. And do his best to do what was usually so easy, usually as unquestionable as breathing, but now? Now it took every single drop of willpower to fight past the fear to do it.

He had to trust Kain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You do not give up on him, Lieutenant,” Alphonse said, and his voice was soft, but urgent. “I will do everything I can to bring him back to you, as long as you keep him here.” The last word was accentuated by Al placing a fist firmly against Jean’s chest again. Right over his heart. “Can I count on you for that?”
> 
> The lightest, most pale yellow mist of what could be hope. 
> 
> “Got it,” he said, voice hoarse.

One night after the Promised Day, after everything had died down and Jean had been over at Bec’s one night, they’d again had one of their early morning conversations about life, similar to ones they’d had since…well, forever, since they were kids still trying to figure out who they were. Partway through, silence had descended with a tension that didn’t characterise their usual quiet, and Jean had asked what was wrong. It had all spilled out then: her terror when she’d heard about the fight with Lust, the rushing, the waiting, the sickness that built up and clogged her breathing. And though he’d held her close, had reassured her that he was fine now, he hadn’t truly been able to reach that part of her with as much ease as he’d always been able to.

It was only years later, sitting in an ambulance that bumped and jolted along and fists clenched until his knuckles were white, that Jean finally understood.

It was maddening, that there was nothing to do. All he could do was watch Al as he spoke quietly to the other medic, and stare at Kain as he lay on the stretcher. Silent and so still.

The time that passed wasn’t being recorded as specific scenes or words. Since Kain had disappeared, Jean’s story had just been written in colour, in sense, in feeling. Painted in thick oils, dripping from the canvas in a blue so deep it was almost black, was the undercurrent of thrumming terror, and the ever-present “what if” that had a stranglehold around his heart. The possibility of death was a slash of urgent red, and guilt was a stone-grey anvil hung around his neck. Every time a machine gave a sudden squeak or Al froze, only to start firing off orders, was an alarm of overbright orange.

Hospitals were white. Jean was an expert at hospitals, had spent way too much time in them. God, he didn’t want that for Kain. Didn’t want pain and too much time, so vast that it swallowed up boredom and left far too much room for thought, for guilt and anger and bitterness.

( _if he lives_ )

But, fuck, what else could he do but watch them wheel Kain away? He trailed after them, hopeless, helpless, when the ambulance finally came to a stop, but then of course there came a point where he wasn’t allowed to go. Confusion grasped all the colour in his world with greedy paws to churn it into muddy brown. He belonged with Kain, belonged with the little ball of sunshine and brightness and _good_ , but he couldn’t _follow_ , and fuck what if—

A fist knocked against his chest, gentle but firm, and Jean looked away from the rapidly shrinking figure that was being rolled into the operation room to meet golden eyes.

“You do not give up on him, Lieutenant,” Alphonse said, and his voice was soft, but urgent. “This is most of what we’re dealing with: he has a head wound, worse than I’d originally thought. His arm’s broken, he’s malnourished and dehydrated. I don’t know if we can save him, and I’m telling you that so that you can be prepared. But I will do everything I can to bring him back to you, as long as you keep him _here_.” The last word was accentuated by Al placing a fist firmly against Jean’s chest again. Right over his heart. “Can I count on you for that?”

The lightest, most pale yellow mist of what could be hope.

“Got it,” he said, voice hoarse. And he knew Kain was in good hands, because Al wasted no more time, not even to make sure the message had gotten through, before he hurried away. Jean knew that Al was clever, far more intelligent than himself. Travelling to Xing had filled that young, eager brain with knowledge that Jean didn’t entirely understand, and from what he’d heard from Al talking about his work, he wasn’t entirely a surgeon or a doctor. Usually, he’d just say that he “helped out at the hospital,” but from the long hours and the respect with which he was treated on the rare occasion Jean had seen him at the hospital, it was more than mere “helping out”. And Ed always talked about Al like he had single-handedly discovered alchemy and modern medicine, but Jean didn’t know what was stronger: that golden boy who’d looked at him with ferocity and fire, or the image of Kain lying huddled on the ground, the sting of the cold in the air and the smell of blood, _Kain’s_ blood, and the sound of his ragged, broken breath.

God, who knew waiting could _hurt_ like this?

“Lieutenant!”

Jean turned to see Mustang, approaching briskly with Hawkeye at his side. “Status?” he asked as they drew level.

“Sir. Al just went in.” Jean swallowed, tried to report like he was expected to: professional, detached, every word ringing false as though the sounds weren’t connected to Kain and spelling a litany of hurt for his tiny warrior. “He’s got a head wound, broken arm, Al said—said he was malnourished and dehydrated. That’s all I got before he went in.”

“Right.” Roy paused for a moment, shifted on his feet. “Did they—did he say how long?”

Jean shook his head. “No, that was it.” The panic was starting to itch at him again, crawling under his skin, urging action. But there was nothing to fucking _do_ , nothing to help get rid of the tiny bugs crawling under his skin.

Mustang sighed, checking his watch. “I have to get back as soon as possible; the brass want an update. Mentioned commendations for bringing in a terrorist group, I’ve got to go meet with them.”

What the fuck? “Oh sure,” Jean said scathingly. “Commendations, exactly what I need right now when my boyfriend’s fucking _dying_.”

At the very least, the fucker had the grace to look uncomfortable, his lips thinning as he met Jean’s glare. But Jean’s outburst still went ignored. “I can’t stay very long. We’ll need to contact his parents,” Mustang said quietly. “Lieutenant, do you have a number?”

It took a second for the words to process and for Jean to change gear, biting down anger to dip shaking fingers inside his pocket for his address book.

“Yeah, I should.”

Mustang turned to address Hawkeye. “Is there a phone somewhere I can use?”

Jean cut in before Hawkeye could speak. “I can do it.” The pair looked at him with concern, which was fair enough if he looked anything at all like the way he felt. “It’ll be better if it’s from me. They know me.”

A brief moment passed and Mustang looked at Hawkeye, and if Jean’s existence hadn’t been buried between numb fog and cold terror, he might have been amused and amazed at the way they communicated without talking.

“All right,” Mustang said eventually. “I’ll head back to the office then, this whole mess needs to be sorted. We might be here for a while; I don’t expect you’ll be leaving anytime soon?” The question was directed at Jean, who shook his head. Like he was going anywhere while Kain was still here. “Is there anything you need me to bring then?”

His brain was really not enjoying the lack of sleep and constantly standing on a knife’s edge, and he could almost _feel_ it dragging as he tried to think of what might be needed. “Um. Grab a shirt from my locker, I…I gave mine to Kain before.” Uniform over bare skin wasn’t very pleasant, and the cold was working its way inside. “And he should have a spare pair of glasses in one of his drawers. He’ll need them when he wakes up.”

It was a small mercy that Mustang didn’t hesitate before he nodded, as though it were true, as though everything were certain. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, then. Send word if anything changes.”

“Yes, sir,” Hawkeye replied.

Mustang looked between the two for a moment. “Good work, Lieutenants.” Throwing a tired salute, Jean battled down the smallest spark of rage as he watched Mustang walk away from Kain once again.

“Let’s call his parents then,” Hawkeye said quietly. Jean followed in silence as she led him down the corridors, boot heels clopping against the white tiles. Depositing him where the phone was, she made the pretence of going to find a vending machine to give him some privacy.

Jean didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the black ink in his little book. The numbers were in Kain’s writing, neat and precise, with his parents’ names printed above in small letters. It had been a while since Jean had seen them, but he remembered the first time he had met the pair. Nervous, and he had spent the whole time observing, listening, learning, because he wanted to know everything there was to know about Kain and where he came from. The resemblance to his father was obvious; Kain had inherited the same jet-black hair, the shape of his eyes, and also the height, an observation that had later earned Jean a punch in the shoulder and a playful denial.

What Kain got from his mother wasn’t immediately apparent, but Jean had got there in the end. She had the same soft-spoken ways with that musical lilt in her voice, that actually became rather undignified snorting when she used her talent for wit and sarcasm that also seemed to have passed onto her son. The gentle teasing she gave her husband, the occasional off-colour remark she’d made to Jean, delivered with such a straight face that Jean had never been able to tell whether or not she knew of any double meaning. Jean had found it easy to love the both of them, almost as simple as it had been to fall in love with Kain.

And now, he was going to give them the same feeling of dreaded hope that was tearing him apart.

With shaking hands, he punched the number into the phone.

_Steady, Jean. Just hold it together for two minutes._

One ring.

_You can do this, just let them know that we found him and where he is._

The second ring.

_Kain’s pale face, torn and bloodied in the shadows_.

A third.

_Kain covered in blood, blood that dripped onto Jean’s hands, flowing faster and faster no matter how he tried to stem the gushing stream, Kain’s screams ringing in his ears and his breath ra_ —

“Hello, this is the Fuery household.”

Jean jolted, and then cleared his throat. “Good evening, this is Lieutenant—”

“Jean?”

He almost wanted to kick himself, how had he not recognised her voice? “Mrs Fuery.”

“I’ve told you before, there’s no need to be so formal. Louisa’s fine.”

“Right. Sorry.” He wanted to explain further, someone get it across that he didn’t feel like he was even in this body, that nothing felt right when he wasn’t sure that Kain would ever wake up again. But those were excuses, and pointless to tell a woman whose son he hadn’t been able to protect, despite all the promises he now knew were empty and had never had any hope. “I…we found him.”

There was ringing silence for a moment, and then there was a soft voice asking something in the background, a voice that Jean recognised as belonging to Kain’s father. But it was Louisa who spoke next, voice shaking.

“Is he alive?”

“Yeah,” Jean hurried to assure her, and he wanted to kick himself again. That should have been the _first_ thing you tell someone who has just been told that their kidnapped son was located. He hesitated over the next bit, but…they had the right to know. They were his fucking parents, so Jean gritted his teeth, and it felt like he was spitting gravel to get the next words out. “He was hurt really badly. They broke his arm, and he...he hurt his head. We’re at the hospital now and they’re working on him. But they d-don’t know if he’ll, if he’ll make it.” _For fuck’s sake, hold it together, Havoc_. “Al says—sorry, that’s one of my friends, my friend’s brother, I mean, he’s a doctor, kinda, I—” He could _feel_ the drag of air in his lungs wanting to speed up, pound through, but he _willed it down_. “He’s workin’ with Kain at the moment, and he’s one of the best, he’s one of the smartest people I know. He’s in good hands.”

For a moment, there was nothing but gentle crackle of static. “That’s good,” Louisa breathed eventually. “And I’m glad to hear that he’s in good hands. Although that’s no different from the usual situation, is it, Jean?” The woman was a miracle, had someone managed to inject warmth into her voice that Jean did not deserve, because he _hadn’t protected Kain_.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he choked out. “That’s…that’s very kind of you.” He pressed a hand against damp eyes, and sucked in a breath. “Do you have the office number?”

“Yes, Kain left it with us.”

“If there’s anythin’, call the office, Brigadier-General Mustang should be able to help.”

“Thank you. We’ll be coming up as soon as possible, should take a little over a day.”

Jean nodded, then remembered that it was useless to do so. “Yeah, I’ll see you soon, then. I’ll try let you know if anythin’…changes. Say hi to Mr Fuery.”

“Jean, I thought I said there wasn’t any need to be so formal.”

He really was too tired to think about all of it. “Take care, both of you.”

“You too, Jean. You too.”

“Thanks.” His lungs weren’t working, he had to get out, get away. “See you soon.” He survived her final farewell, survived those precious seconds it took between her last words and the dial tone.

Then he slammed the receiver down, and lurched to the nearest bin, where he threw up all the sickness, the stress, the terrified _love_ that had been twisting and churning around in his gut for so long. His legs felt like string and his arms were weak as he clutched to the edges of the bin, white-knuckled and heaving ragged gasps.

Gently, someone’s hands closed over one of his own, and someone was calling his name. He couldn’t do it himself, but a pair of hands managed to release his grip on the bin, and strong arms supported him and his dragging feet over to a chair, into which he all but collapsed. It wasn’t even until there was a soft handkerchief swiping at the corners of his mouth and dabbing at his eyes that he realised he was crying.

“Fuck,” he gasped, breath hitching. Shaking, he shoved away the hands that were still dabbing gently at his cheeks so that he could bury his face in his hands, and he broke. “Fuckin’ shit, fuck this, what if he dies? How the fuck am I meant to face ‘em if he dies?”

It was Hawkeye’s voice that whipped out. “Don’t you dare give up on him, Lieutenant.”

Enraged, sick with shame, and so desperately lost, he jerked his head up to look at her. “I’m not fuckin’ givin’ up! I’m just—did you fuckin’ see him there?” Jean had, and he’d never get the image from his mind. “They tore him to fuckin’ pieces, his shirt was so damn bloody and I’m not even sure he ever had that much in him, he’s so fuckin’ small and he thinks he can take on the world and—shit, shit. Fuck.” Breathing was impossible, and he tore at his hair instead of trying to rip his heart out. “I’m meant to look after him. I was meant to—I promised him he was safe with me.”

He’d been broken before, quite literally. Back then, it was Kain who had held him, Kain who had eased him out of nightmares and reminded him that he was worthy and beautiful despite whatever else had happened. It was just that Jean had never done vulnerability. Even when he had been in hospital, a hole in his stomach and burn wounds across his back, he had forced laughter, had whined and joked for his visitors, including Kain. It was only after that he had really let himself open, or rather, that Kain had patiently yet forcefully worked his way beneath Jean’s guard.

And now even though some part of him, beneath all the despair and wreckage, was grateful for Hawkeye being here now, it was just so _wrong_. He needed small hands gentle along his cheek, a forehead resting against his, and fuck it if it was childish, but he just needed Kain to _be_ here and tell him everything was going to be all right.

“Havoc, there was nothing more you could’ve done.” Hawkeye’s voice was gentle, but firm. “You know that.”

The thing was, Jean did know. There had been no news, not even the smallest indication that the terrorist group had been mobilising, had been planning anything. No suspicious activity that anyone in the team had encountered, no rumours or buzzing from any of their contacts. In the end, it was just Kain on his usual afternoon walk, and no one could’ve known.

But _knowing_ that didn’t mean that he believed it. After all, there might’ve been something. You can’t prove a negative, no way to know that there might not have been some hint, some one of the too many conversations that Kain seemed to have every day. Someone had to have known Kain, had to have known who he was and what he did. That meant that there should’ve been some hint, and that was the part that Jean was picking at like the thinnest scab over a raw wound.

Shit, he’d promised the kid that he would be _safe_. After nights spent waking up from screaming and babbling about blood and death and war, Jean had always told Kain that he was home and safe now, and he hadn’t been able to keep that promise.

But he merely acknowledged Hawkeye’s words with a nod. What else was there to do? She knew all too well what it was like to fail, to have naïvely—so stupidly—sworn up and down to protect, when in the end you were only human and there were forces far greater than you and not a thing you could do to protect those you loved most.

The corridors were oddly quiet, for all the hurt and thrumming fear that wailed inside Jean; the only sound was the occasional approach then fade of footsteps as someone passed by, and his own breathing, harsh in his ears. Hawkeye’s voice was murmuring something, gently shoring up the crumbling foundations of Jean’s racing heart as best she could. Gradually, wildfire died down to an ever-present buzz, and the fear settled in his stomach instead of choking him. Jean swallowed, breathed deep, and got to his feet.

“I’m all right,” he said quietly. He wasn’t, not really, but Hawkeye understood. They made their way back to stiff chairs outside the operation room in silence, and did the only thing they could.

Wait.

* * *

Five hours and seven minutes later, the door swung open.

Jean shot to his feet immediately. The room tilted, and for a brief moment everything went white, but Jean just gritted his teeth and waited it out because he _couldn’t falter now_. Fingers slipped into his hand, and he gripped them like a lifeline; Bec had turned up soon after he had, had waited along with Jean and Hawkeye as the minutes dragged on.

“He’s holding on,” Al said immediately, once he’d stepped out.

“He all right?” Jean asked, a little desperate. The breath of hesitation before Al started talking set Jean’s heart galloping.

“They did a lot of damage,” he said softly, dark circles under bright eyes. “They’re still working on him. The—maybe it’s better if we get out of the hallway.” With numb feet, Jean followed Al down the hall and into a small room, Bec’s hand still clasped tightly within his own, Hawkeye staying close behind. Al waited until they were all seated before he began, and Jean was beyond knowing what he should even be feeling now.

“The head injury was the one that worried us the most. I did what I could and they’re still working on him, but…there is a chance he might not wake up.” His words were clinical and his voice steady, but the gaze he levelled at Jean was soft. Not like it mattered, anyway. Words didn’t seem to be making sense these days regardless, because Jean could not _fathom_ a day when Kain wouldn’t be by his side. Some part of him knew that Al had warned him before, but he just couldn’t conceive a world where there wasn’t a stupid kid who fed too many dogs that were bigger than him, and picked dandelions to shove through Jean’s button holes on the way home from work.

“We’re doing everything we can, and there’s a good chance he’ll pull through. I just needed to let you know.” Al shifted in his seat with a sigh. “They mustn’t have noticed that anything was wrong, because I think they had an alchemist or alkahestrist, and they healed anything which might have killed him. There were knife wounds. I did what I could to fix those up, and most of them shouldn’t cause permanent damage. There was one which might trouble him a little, the muscle was torn a little too deep for me to fix entirely. The rest should heal fully in time. He also lost two of his fingers to frostbite. Right hand. Ring and pinky.”

It was that blow, that strike of the hammer which finally crushed Jean’s battered heart and left him defenceless. If he had been able to see anything beyond the foggy grey numbness, he might have noticed that Al’s sigh was a little more drawn out than usual, his shoulders dropping forward. As it were, nothing was processing at the moment but the world of hurt that Al was describing, and vividly, achingly, imagining that agony for _Kain_.

“Fuck—what?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Al said, and he leaned forward to rest his hand gently against Jean’s knee. “He was kept in the cold. It’s a miracle he didn’t lose more, with the temperature that room was at when we arrived.”

But Jean couldn’t hear. The words were blurring, and Al’s face was out of focus. How the fuck had this happened? Fuery, _his_ boyfriend, _his_ Kain that he was meant to protect to the ends of the earth, who he’d give life and limb for and he just—hadn’t. Hadn’t looked out for him. Hadn’t been fast enough, hadn’t worked hard enough to find him, never mind the desperately long nights and lost sleep and skipped meals, there had to have been _something_ more he could’ve done, and now—

“Jean.” It was Bec’s eyes that greeted him, familiar, brows turned down in a stubborn expression he had known since childhood, and her fingers firm beneath his chin. “Stop that. When you gush about your boy, what is it you always say to me?”

Something like a choked-out laugh might’ve made it’s way out of his throat. “He’s really fuckin’ small.”

There was the softest hint of a growl in her voice when she said his name again. “You know that isn’t what I mean.”

He did know, but he wasn’t sure that he could reconcile his Kain with the abstract idea of some battered, broken body in the operating room. “He’s smart,” he whispered. “He’s strong. Went to war.”

“Right. And does that sound like a man who’s going to let the loss of two fingers get in his way?”

_No_. But then again, Jean had never thought it were possible that Kain would ever leave him either. “No.” But there was so much that it hindered. Two tiny fingers, and the effect could be huge.

When Al spoke next, his voice was firm, and Jean clung onto that certainty because he had none of his own, didn’t know _anything_ since Kain had been taken away. “It’ll certainly have an effect, I won’t deny that. He will have a lot to deal with. But Lieutenant, he’s strong. You know that. And I told you not to give up on him.”

Oh. He had, hadn’t he?

Jean swallowed to get his voice working. “Right. Fuck, okay.” But what the fuck was he meant to do when Kain had lost his fingers and they weren’t sure if he’d wake up—no, he would, he would, he fucking _would_. Kain never let him down.

“How much longer?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. He’s mostly out of danger, they’re just finishing up so that none of our work’s undone. There wasn’t really anything more I could do, so I thought it was best I update you.” Then Al closed his eyes for a moment, pressing a hand to his temple with a grimace.

“Alphonse, you should go home,” Hawkeye said gently. “You’ve done a lot tonight.”

Al hesitated. “You might need me to talk to the doctors afterwards.”

“We’ll be fine,” Hawkeye insisted. “We’ve got a handle on things, and the Brigadier will be back soon as well. You need to rest.”

“I’ll stay a little bit longer,” Al said, after a moment’s thought. “In case there’s anything you need to clear up.” He rose and stretched. “I should go clean up a bit, but you can stay in here if you want.”

Jean nodded. “Yeah I think…I think I need a moment.” Just needed one breath to still his shaking hands, calm his shaking heart.

“Take your time,” Al said gently, opening the door.

“Al. Um. Thanks.”

Al paused before smiling gently. “You all supported me more than I can ever have words for, Lieutenant. Helping family is a given.” With that, he gave the slightest nod, and left.

* * *

Waiting areas were not comfortable at all. The quiet seemed far too fragile, atmosphere tense. Hawkeye was talking in low tones to Breda and Falman, sitting on the chair that Al had occupied until Jean had insisted that the younger man go home. Although it had only been a few hours working in the surgery, Al had looked exhausted, an issue which Ed explained occasionally presented itself as a result of long years spent at the Gate. Being the ever-vigilant older brother, he’d escorted Al home, with promises to return later.

Jean was dozing on Bec’s shoulder, Kain’s glasses in his pocket and slightly warmer with his shirt on now that Mustang had come back, though the man had gone off somewhere again. Fuck, he needed a coffee, but the thought was just floating on the outer reaches of his mind, fatigue weighing too heavy on his limbs to translate the thought into action.

But the sound of a door swinging open had him forcing his eyelids up and stumbling to his feet to see a doctor approaching.

“You’re his colleagues?” she asked briskly, blood ( _Kain’s blood_ ) still on gloved hands.

Jean nodded mutely, and it was Hawkeye who spoke. “Yes, I’m his superior officer.”

“Right. Well, he’s stable now, though we’ve moved him into intensive care. We’ll need to keep an eye on him because of the head wound. We’re expecting that he should wake up, but there’s no guarantee.” She shifted on her feet, and the fact that she shoved her hands in her pockets—the action quick and slightly nervous before the restlessness appeared to be willed away—worried Jean. “He was treated very…roughly. His left arm is broken, and he has multiple stab wounds that are quite deep. When he’s up again, he will need a wheelchair before the knee fully recovers; we had to operate to repair damaged muscle there.” Though Al had informed Jean of some of it, this grave recital of Kain’s suffering was no less excruciating for the repetition. “If he wakes up, he will be in a lot of pain, though not as much as he would have been had Alphonse not been here.”

Every word crawled under Jean’s skin, stabbing, cutting, until the desperate impatience which itched just beneath Jean’s skin finally burst through. “Can I see him?” he blurted.

The doctor levelled what might have been a glare at Jean, had she looked less fatigued. “He’s been moved to intensive care. We only allow family in.”

“Yes, but—I am. I’m his—” His what, exactly?

Fuck, he was just…his. Just Kain’s.

The doctor looked apprehensive, no doubt taking in Jean’s blonde hair and the fact that he looked nothing like Kain.

“I’m sorry, but it’s family members only.”

Jean didn’t understand. Simply stared. “I—I am.” What? “I’m—I’m his partner.” Like that even covered it. Like that even meant half of what they were.

But apparently it wasn’t good enough.

“I’m sorry. But we only allow immediate family. We’d need to speak with them.”

“They’re—his parents are still heading in,” he replied numbly.

“When they’re in, we can have a talk with them and see if we can arrange something, but otherwise I’m really sorry, sir, but it’s family only.”

His head was spinning. The doctor’s face was—apologetic, a little, but if she was sorry then how come…?

Someone had a firm grip on his arm, and there were gentle voices around him but they refused to pierce the fog around his brain because they were leading him away from where Kain lay, cobbled together by the doctors in a hospital bed.

They’d sat him down, there was a hand resting on his shoulder but—why? God, why? What was there left to prove? Gradually he drifted back, and Hawkeye’s voice, calm and efficient despite the layers of fatigue, filtered through.

“I’ll get a hold of the Brigadier, I’m not sure where he wandered off to but—”

And at the mention of the man, Jean’s blood boiled. “My god, why the fuck are we talking about fucking Mustang when Kain’s in there and he might not fucking wake up?”

“Havoc, we’re trying—”

“Do you guys even fuckin’ care at _all_?”

“Jean, cut it out,” Bec snapped. “If you’ve got all that energy, go get me some water and _calm down._ ”

Jean just stared at her, not understanding. How could—didn’t she get it? She always understood it, understood _him_ and the betrayal hit so deep on top of everything that he had no words.

“Fuckin’ fine,” he snarled, shoving himself up to have the chair toppling over with a resounding _bang_. “You’d think that you guys would maybe give two shits about Kain, but sure, we’ll just keep right on the campaign trail.” Fuming, he stormed to the kitchen, hands shaking so badly that he spilled the water that came out of the tap. Fucking Mustang. Kain could be—

( _dying, slipping away even as he stood out here_ )

—was hurt, was lying in there alone and none of them could take a moment to think about him. Instead, they were patting their backs because they’d caught a bunch of criminals. Screw the casualties, who cares what they’d lost?

Growling when his hands still refused to hold the little plastic cups steady, he hurled them at the trashcan with a growl. Fuck that. If Bec wanted fucking water she could deal with it herself.

Rounding the corner back into the waiting room, he saw Mustang talking with the doctor.

“What’s he doing here?” he grunted to Bec.

“Getting you inside,” she said, soft enough that no one beyond their little circle could hear. She pulled a wry smile. “Bringing out all the Mustang charm he can muster.”

And he was. They were standing a little bit away from the group, but Jean could still catch snippets of the soft conversation, and Mustang’s smooth tones.

“Very concerned…you understand.” He was nodding now, all serious and concerned intent. “Yes…long time… him safe.” The doctor was been shaking her head, but she seemed slightly…battered. “Alphonse…at ease if…”

“What do you mean getting me inside?”

Then they were shaking hands and Mustang was coming back towards the group.

“Lieutenant Havoc, with me.” When the words didn’t quite register, Bec nudged him.

“Go on already,” she muttered.

“Yes, sir?”

“You’ve been assigned to guard Warrant Officer Fuery,” Mustang said. Jean still stood there, completely stunned, staring at Mustang, who was all business and straight shoulders despite how his uniform jacket was rumpled and there were furrows in his hair. The doctor opened her mouth once she realised who Mustang had called up, but the Brigadier rushed on.

“Please, after you, Doctor.”

She frowned. “I didn’t—”

“ _Please_ understand.” It was quiet and gritted out, the smooth charm had slipped and given away to ragged fear. The doctor looked from one beaten man to the other. Shaking, Jean tucked his hands in his pockets, because if they didn’t—

But then she nodded once, and led them down the hall. The tapping of their shoes on tiled floor echoed in the empty corridor, and then the doctor opened a door.

“You may have your…guard here for the night. There’s a chair next to the bed he can sleep in,” she said quietly before they were allowed in.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mustang murmured. She nodded once, left, and Roy held the door open and waved Jean through.

And there he was, still deathly pale even in the dim light, and a mask strapped over his face. It was noisy in here, with all the beeping and humming of machinery. What seemed like thousands of machines were hooked up next to Kain, so many tubes feeding into his tiny frame.

Jean swallowed, heart rough. Slowly, he sat himself down and gently placed a hand on top of the sheets where Kain’s hand would be lying.

“Hey,” he whispered gruffly, running one hand over that tiny bump in the cloth. There wasn’t a reply, only the steady beep of machinery, but Jean hadn’t been expecting one. Cloth shuffled behind him and Mustang’s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing. Kain didn’t have his glasses on, and he looked so small, was so fragile lying there with his hair all over the place and cheeks sunken in. It was only now that Jean noticed that Kain’s hair was longer than usual. He liked to keep it short. Any longer and it started to flop over his eyes, and Kain would complain and huff. Jean would tug at the silky black and laugh, Kain would pout, and then he’d have to be comforted by a ridiculous amount of cuddles and kisses.

Fuck, what if he never heard Kain laugh again?

Overwhelmed, Jean sucked in one shuddering breath, lowered his head and grabbed at Mustang’s hand on his shoulder. God, he was so messed up right now.

“Fuck, Chief,” he mumbled eventually. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a dick.” Roy said nothing, before there was the sound of cloth shifting and Roy had removed his hand to sit lightly on the edge of Kain’s bed.

“Last year, Captain Hawkeye was away for a month,” he said quietly after a while, eyes on Kain’s face. “The second week into her trip, Ed went missing for eight days and…fourteen hours.” Now he turned to Jean. “Hawkeye was gone, and you kept it together, Havoc. And I’m pretty sure I bit off your head more than once in that period.” He smiled ruefully. “So, apology accepted.” Jean let out the slightest—it couldn’t be called a laugh. But there was the smallest smile, and that was more than could be said of the last thirty-seven days.

Roy walked over to stand next to Kain. He seemed to contemplate the still figure in the bed for a moment before he bent down so his mouth was right near Kain’s ear. In the stillness of the room, Jean just made out the murmured words.

“Four years ago, I gave you an order Warrant Officer. A direct order from your commanding officer.” Roy sucked in a ragged breath, then released it again. “That order still holds. You are not allowed to now disobey. Do you understand?” The question was vicious, and desperate.

Nothing.

Roy just stood there, looking down at Kain for a while longer. Sighing, he turned, clapped Jean on the shoulder, and left with a single, “look after him, Lieutenant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This being the smallest ship I have ever shipped (and not just because of Kain's presence), comments and kudos make me disproportionately happy


	3. Chapter 3

Louisa Fuery felt like she hadn’t slept in an age.

It had been a month—just over—since she had gotten that phone call from Jean. His voice had been steady, but she had known. Perhaps it had been _because_ his voice had been so calm, so devoid of his usual affection and jovial cadence, that she had knew.

Regardless, it wasn’t of any consequence. Because as soon as Jean had opened his mouth, she had known that something had happened to Kain.

‘What’ wasn’t a question that Jean had been able to answer. Nor ‘how’, nor ‘why.’ All that they had known was that Kain had vanished.

“Someone’s got ‘im,” Jean had said, weary and broken. But when she’d pushed him further, he had said no more, only that they’d “been in contact.”

“I’ll find ‘im,” Jean had promised. Louisa had almost bitten her tongue clean in two to prevent herself from voicing her immediate thought.

_How, when you don’t know a thing?_

But he had. Somehow, despite the inevitability of time dragging, despite how every passing moment cemented her son’s death further, his colleagues—comrades, team, friends—had managed to haul back the ticking of the clock.

But it wouldn’t be the same again. Time had been stolen, and it was something that could never be replaced.

Practically, there had been little difference—Louisa had gone far longer than a month without seeing her son before. But the knowledge that he was somewhere he was not meant to be? That made all the difference.

Did this woman know? Louisa wondered, watching the figure in military blue, the shade familiar from her fingers dusting off new stars on her son’s shoulders. Did she know what it was like to have your reality taken apart, only to be stitched together again?

“Just around the corner,” the woman said, flashing a brief smile before turning once more to face resolutely forward, dark hair swinging in a cascade to settle across her back again. There had been a name, Louisa was sure of it. She hoped that Harry had caught it; it would be horribly embarrassing to have missed it. Although the way that his fingers were tight around hers told her that perhaps he was in the same place she was: caught between a mixture of terrified apprehension and sickening hope.

The woman—a Lieutenant, Louisa saw, at least she had that much to go by—slowed and opened a door, ushering Louisa in, her husband in tow with a murmured thanks on both their parts. The corridor continued, and their footsteps echoed along the empty halls. It was late; few people were around, and the Fuerys had been cleared especially just so they could visit.

“Jean would’ve come out to meet you,” the woman said, voice hushed. “He was going to, but I was around, and thought it might make everyone feel better if he stayed with Fuery. Just so he’d have some company.”

Louisa cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she said, equally quiet. “I—we appreciate that it’s late, that there must have been an awful lot of work.”

The woman smiled a sad little smile. “Not one person on Mustang’s team would think that, not for Fuery,” she said. She paused at a door: ward 610, as they’d been told upon their arrival. “They can only have two visitors at once, so I’ll just kick Jean out for you.”

“Thank you,” Louisa said, and Harry’s voice echoed her own, only a brief moment later.

The door swung shut, and Louisa was left alone with her husband, and the terror in the pit of her stomach. She clenched her eyes shut and took a shuddering breath, before turning to her husband.

He was so _worn_ , and Louisa wondered if she didn’t look the same. His eyes were haunted behind his glasses, and what might’ve been a smile when he caught her eye turned out to be more of a grimace.

“He’ll be all right,” she said, hoping that the words didn’t sound as empty as her hopes. She squeezed Harry’s hand, smiling a little when he returned the pressure.

“I certainly hope so,” he replied. Then he let out a long, broken breath, shifting so he could hold her, one arm looping around her waist. Exhausted, she dropped her head to his shoulder.

“What’re we to do?” he asked, and Louisa had no answer, could only hold him in return. They didn’t—there wasn’t even any certainty that Kain would wake, and if he did, what was to happen beyond that?

The door swung open, and there was a familiar face, one that she was so _used_ to seeing beside her son’s, that the tears finally came.

“Jean.” She didn’t even need to move, hadn’t shifted from Harry’s embrace before Jean was over, his arms wrapped around the both of them.

And here, because Jean _knew_ the pain that they were all in, Louisa broke.

“Oh, god.” She clenched her eyes shut, hating that she could feel the tears leaking out. “Oh, god, Jean.”

The arm around her shoulders gathered her closer, and Jean’s breath was harsh in her ear. “I’m sorry,” came the murmur, broken, his voice slipping on the syllables. “He’s—he’s okay, he’s not awake yet, but he’s okay.”

Louisa nodded, letting herself fall into the embrace, unable to form any words past the lump in her throat and her attempts to swallow her tears.

“He’s inside?” Harry asked.

“Yeah, you can—you can go in.” They drew back, and Jean raked a hand through his hair, let out a breath. “Do you—tea?” he asked, a little helplessly. “You gotta be tired, I can get you a drink if you want.”

“You should rest, Jean,” Louisa said gently.

But he just shoved his hands in his pockets, had that helpless expression on his face. “I gotta—I’ve just been sitting there for hours, doing something would be nice. It’s not trouble.”

“Tea it is, then,” Louisa relented. The Lieutenant she had forgotten about in her relief to see Jean swung the door open to admit herself and Harry, before nodding at Jean.

“I’ll come with you, big guy.”

Any other day, Jean might have smiled, or glared; Louisa had been around him enough to see what teasing usually resulted in. But tonight, he merely glanced at his colleague, and nodded tiredly. “Thanks, Becca.”

“Thank you both,” Harry said softly, before he propped his arm up against the door to relieve the Lieutenant. Both soldiers nodded, and Louisa slipped inside with her husband, the last thing she glimpsed being the woman folding her arms around Jean, and him pressing his lips to her hair before burying his face in it.

The room was…quiet wasn’t quite the right word. It was still. Nothing moved, but it wasn’t as though it were devoid of sound, not with the constant hum of machinery, the piercing beeps picked out over the score of constant whirring in the dim room.

There were two chairs next to the single bed, one pulled right up close, with a military jacket still draped over the back, the sheets still crumpled from where Jean must have been resting.

Kain looked odd without his glasses. Bare, especially laid out like this, his body hidden beneath white sheets, so still and…unnatural. Because the little boy that had grown into a brave young man had always kicked at his sheets, curled up into a ball in his slumber. Now he lay on his back—no, someone else had laid him on his back, straight and still and lifeless.

No, he was still alive, the machine with its incessant beeping that was almost grating on her tangle nerves told her, with every noise, that her _son was still alive_ —

“My boy.” Harry’s voice cracked over the words, and he stumbled to the chair, all but collapsing into it.

Thirty years and counting, she’d been married to this man, and she could’ve counted on her fingers the number of times she’d witnessed him truly break. Once they’d had Kain—once they’d been blessed with that little spark of light—there had been more. When Kain had broken his arm at age five, when he’d decided to walk home from school when he was thirteen, and had been missing for hours. And then, once he’d enlisted, the fear had never entirely left, especially after he’d been sent down south.

Louisa wasn’t sure that they’d ever be able to rid themselves of the shadow, the _weight_ of it all, now that this had happened.

But he was back. That was what mattered, and that was what she told her husband when she sat herself down in the chair beside him.

“Jean says he’ll be all right,” she whispered, because it seemed wrong to speak in any louder tone, sacrilege to drown out any of the noises which signalled that Kain was still with them.

“I know,” Harry said, and his voice was thick. “I know but—Lou, god, why did I ever let him do this? I knew what it meant when he put on blue, even though—he kept saying never in any lifetime would he be in danger, he kept telling us that but—”

“We knew,” she said, and she took his trembling hand. “ _Both_ of us, darling. This was his choice, and we _both_ supported him. It isn’t your fault.” Her smile shook, because in the deepest recesses of her heart, she too felt the blame. “He never would have listened to us, Harry. You know that.”

Harry just nodded tiredly, and he raised his hand as though about to stroke Kain’s cheek, but then he stopped. Gently, ever so gently, he brushed Kain’s hair back. “He’s hurt,” he said, disbelieving.

 _We all are_.

But Louisa said nothing, simply sat next to her husband, and watched her son.

They stayed, for some time. At some point, Jean knocked on the door to deliver their drinks, and Louisa was glad for something to do with her hands, because she wasn’t entirely sure what she was meant to do at all. They sat together, and watched Kain, even though they both knew that any change was unlikely to come about any time soon. But they’d been apart for so long that it was sorely needed, just this quiet presence together, as though that could somehow make up for the fact that they’d been apart. As though it could make up for how she’d let her son go.

But they needed to leave, eventually. They couldn’t stay the whole night, even though Louisa suspected that Jean had done so, and may still do so tonight. But, much as she loathed to do it, they needed to rest. So after some time, Louisa rose and lay a gentle kiss on Kain’s brow.

“We’ll come back later, darling. All right?”

Kain remained still, save the gentle movement of his breathing making his chest rise and fall. His eyelids didn’t twitch, and his face remained slack. “I love you,” she whispered, and retreated to stand by the door, waiting as Harry bent over their son to murmur words she couldn’t hear.

When they stepped back outside, Jean looked…nervous.

“Everythin’ all right?”

Louisa attempted a smile, and hoped that it didn’t look as haggard and broken as she felt. “As well as can be expected. He hasn’t woken up, if that’s what you were wondering.”

“Right.” Jean swallowed, and his gaze swung hopelessly from one Fuery to the other.

Why did he looked so frightened? Not worried, but fearful, _scared_ , somehow—Louisa could see it in the way that Jean’s eyes wouldn’t meet hers for long, the clench of his jaw, the way he rolled a cigarette between his fingers.

It was her husband who finally broke the silence.

“Thank you.” Harry’s voice was hoarse “Thank you for bringing him back.”

Jean’s expression was torn, conflicted.

“No, no, I—I didn’t—” he stammered, then swallowed hard. “I didn’t look after him,” he whispered, and the shame in his voice broke Louisa’s heart. He looked so worn, peppered stubble on his chin, hair a mess, the dark circles under his eyes.

“Nonsense,” she said, finding her voice. “You always look after him, you’ve never—”

“No, no, _don’t_ ,” he interrupted, voice harsh. He raked a hand through his hair, actually stepped away from her. “ _Don’t_ say that, I didn’t, not this time. I was _meant_ to, but I didn’t—I _couldn’t_ —we spent so damn long and I didn’t—”

It was instinct that made her want to protect him, provide him what comfort she could. As it had been when Kain had cried from ghost stories and the fear of the “monster under my bed, mummy!” This man had looked after her son, had made—no, still made, Kain wasn’t gone from them yet—her son glow, bright smile lit all the brighter, that she couldn’t have him shoulder that burden.

“Silly boy,” she said quietly, and she cupped his cheek. Jean simply closed his eyes. “You _know_ he wouldn’t blame you.”

Stubborn, Louisa thought fondly when Jean shook his head again. So stubborn, when it came to Kain. “I know, but that’s not—he doesn’t blame _anyone_ for anything, but I still—I said I’d look after him.” His eyes opened slowly, and he grasped her hand to bring it down, squeeze her fingers. “I promised the two of _you_ that I would. _I_ blame me, and you should—I don’t get it.”

“You love him,” Harry said, the words quiet. Jean’s breath hitched. “You’ve cared for him for years.”

“Don’t think we don’t see that,” Louisa continued. “Do you think for a moment that we believe you didn’t do everything you could to find him?”

She’d never seen him like this. She’d seen him stressed from work, she’d seen those nerves he’d had when they’d first met, but she had never see him with this vulnerability.

“What if—” Jean stopped, his hand tightening around Louisa’s own, and his gaze dropped to their joined hands. “I wasn’t fast enough. What if he doesn’t wake up?”

Louisa’s breath froze in her chest. “Jean—”

“I can’t—I _want_ him to, I _need_ him but what if—what if he doesn’t?”

The very question Louisa had been refusing to contemplate—and in so doing, had yet to cease thinking about.

She swallowed, and leaned into Jean.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

They waited.

* * *

Steady beeps. Gentle electronic whirring. Voices, muffled and muted. Muscles ached, stiff with fatigue and pain. His eyes felt gritty as he blinked them, and even that tiny movement was uncomfortable. It was blurry, and he tried to turn his head to look around, but all he managed was the slightest twitch because his head felt so heavy on his neck. Things were blurry, and that meant something…he didn’t have his glasses on. He’d been…asleep?

No…they’d…someone had taken them. Gradually, something filtered through. Someone was calling his name, he knew that voice, tha—Jean.

Memory.

Not home.

Not safe.

Jean was here, Jean—

They had Jean.

Kain tried to sit up, but his muscles refused to obey, and he shoved an arm behind himself to push himself up—

The voices paused, and then a hand was on his wrist, someone pressing down on his shoulder. At the contact he jerked, tried to swing up an arm to push them away but his muscles were weak and another firm push had him back down in the bed.

Unwanted, familiar panic was crawling all over his skin, had him desperate enough to throw off the grip on his wrist, fierce satisfaction when he managed to make contact and was rewarded with a startled shout. But then there was pressure firm on his arm, pushing down, and his left arm wasn’t working. They’d strapped it down and he couldn’t _move_. God, they’d chucked some muzzle over him, as if the collar hadn’t been enough, as if it could get any _worse_.

They were holding him down now and he thrashed and tried to get away, snarling despite parched mouth because no, they couldn’t have Jean. They could do what they wanted to him but they _couldn’t have Jean_ —

“Kain. Kain, no, listen to me, it’s okay!”

“Hold him down!”

“No, don’t, leave him alone!”

“He’ll hurt himself.”

“Mr Fuery—”

They’d pinned him down, and he realised that they’d brought him out of the dark. Blinding white and shifting colours, blurred faces surrounding him, staring down at him as though he was prey. Frantically, he twisted, but he couldn’t find Jean, couldn’t spot that familiar sandy hair. One hand was heavy, holding his arm down, and someone else had clamped down on his ankles despite his kicking, desperately trying to release himself—

“Lieutenant, talk to him.” A soft murmur, and he recognised that one too. No, they couldn’t have taken—

“Kain, hey, hey it’s me. It’s Jean.”

He wanted to say _I know, and you need to leave_ , but he couldn’t get anything past the fucking _muzzle_. Someone touched his hand and he flinched, tried to jerk away, because contact meant pain. That there were people meant that the hurt wasn’t far away, and his heart was beating a terrified cadence as he remembered that one, unyielding rule that had been beaten, stabbed, burned into him. But the hand on his wrist was heavy, and warm fingers tangled up with his.

“You’re safe, I promise.” Safe? No. No, he couldn’t be. Not possible, they were using him, using _Jean_ to get something out of him and he snarled and struggled, how _dare_ they?

“We got you out, I promise you. You’re safe now.”

The loud pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, and uncontrollable trembling as he tried to twist away. He couldn’t—he couldn’t be safe. He’d been there long enough to know that every time he woke, he wasn’t home, that he was anything _but_ safe.

But…this was Jean. Jean said that he was safe.

And Jean would never lie to him.

Slowly, Kain stilled. His breath was still coming ragged, tearing through his throat and he wanted nothing more than for them to stop _touching_ him. Then Jean’s face was in his vision, and he turned towards it as though it was the brightest of lights after so many days in the dark. It started coming back, a little bit: fuzzy images in his mind of Jean silhouetted against the light and the flooding relief despite the aches, of Edward in the room. He tried to talk, tried to call out, but it came out muffled and croaky and they’d _muzzled him_ —

“It’s okay, babe, don’t try to talk.” Gentle words, a light squeeze on his hand. “You’re in the hospital, they put a mask on you to help. Yes or no questions we can deal with, and if you need anything, just tap my hand yeah?” Kain clenched his eyes shut and nodded, because the only thing that kept him grounded was that voice, that little chuckle that soothed his pounding heart.

“Always knew you were a fast learner. Let him go now.” The last bit was a soft murmur, though firm. Not directed at him though, so Kain ignored it, instead just focussing on slowing down his breathing and snuffing out the whimper that was welling in his throat—whether it was from panic or pain or both, he couldn’t tell. And then there was a scrape of a chair, and Jean’s voice was closer to his ear, calloused thumb running gentle circles over his hand. “It’s all right, Kain, I’ve got you.”

Kain whimpered in acknowledgement, then in pain that was making itself known now that he had gotten past the initial disorientation. His left arm was throbbing, his right hand aching, and agony singing up every broken nerve in the places where he knew that there had been that knife, pushing, burning, the smell of blood and unyielding pain—

Cold. Dark. Alone, the burning taste of vomit dug deep in his aching throat, sore from screaming, the _cold_ that seeped into his very bones, the way it hurt to shiver—

“Kain, stay with me.”

He was _trying_ , but fuck it if he actually knew how to, when everything still ached and the very thought that there were other people, strangers that weren’t Jean, sent panic crawling up his spine.

Reflexively, he clenched his hand around Jean’s, clutched it desperately, but something was…off. Something about the movement felt wrong. What—

“Are you in pain, Warrant Officer?”

Yes, he was in utter agony. Everything throbbed and screamed, and the only part of him that wasn’t hurting…he wasn’t sure there was one. There wasn’t a single inch of his skin that they’d left untouched, and his nerves were starting to crawl with panic again. Didn’t they know, couldn’t they _see_ how his skin ran with fire?

No, Kain, don’t—be logical. Be reasonable. Of course they couldn’t he had to _say_ something ( _no one can hear your screaming_ ), so he worked his mouth before remembering that he had that mask on.

“Kain.” His name rolled off Jean’s tongue, gentle and soft. “Do you want something for the pain?”

Kain nodded.

Blurred shapes moved around him, and despite the pain, Kain kept following their movements, the need to know where they were all placed overriding everything. Someone fiddled with the machines next to him, and Jean kept murmuring soft words in his ear. Kain couldn’t really make out what was being said—it took too much effort to compute it all—but he felt the love, the care, and it kept him grounded as fog slipped into his veins and he started to float.

“D’you want your glasses?” Jean asked softly. That would be nice, Kain thought, not to see everything as a blurry blob, so he nodded slowly. Someone shuffled next to him but Jean’s hand stayed in his. Then something cold settled on his face, and Kain blinked when everything shifted into focus. The ceiling was white above him, and there were various lights and machines surrounding him. Kain shifted in the bed, looking, searching, but it wasn’t until Jean leaned over him that Kain finally got to see him.

He was smiling, and Kain loved that smile with everything he had. ‘Jean,’ he tried to say, but it was weak, and muffled by the mask. “Hey,” Jean said softly, hoarsely. Had he had the strength, Kain would have lifted his hand to cup Jean’s cheek, feel the rough drag of stubble across his chin from too many days without shaving. Jean’s eyes were tired, as well, but they were still…Jean’s. Still that familiar blue, with the light gold of his lashes, and still looking at Kain as he was the most precious thing in the world.

Kain just wanted to fold himself around that man and never let go. But his muscles felt nauseous with fatigue, so he had to settle for Jean’s hand wrapped around his. Movements clumsy, he tried to grasp onto Jean’s hand, but the movement felt awkward. Something was off, and he couldn’t quite—he couldn’t feel a part of his hand, he realised.

Confused, he made an inquiring noise, and tapped on Jean’s hand.

“What is it?”

He tugged at Jean’s hand, and gestured—as best he could—with his head, nodding in the direction of his arm.

Jean went very, very still.

“You hurting?” he asked quietly.

Kain shook his head, fatigue and the drugs overriding what otherwise would have been frustration. Again, he flapped his hand weakly against Jean’s, and started to yank at the blankets so he could release his arm.

“Kain…” Jean released his hand, a little reluctantly. “You should…you shouldn’t move so much,” he said, the words a rush. Kain glanced at him, confused, still struggling to work his arm out from under the covers. Something was wrong. Something was wrong, because Jean was looking at him with this helpless expression on his face and being all…evasive. “Kain…”

Kain glared weakly at him. _Tell me_.

Jean looked at him a moment longer, then seemed to come to a decision. He placed his hand back over Kain’s arm, drawing small circles with his thumb. “You…” He swallowed. “I’m sorry, you…you got frostbite,” he said helplessly, and Kain didn’t understand. Jean glanced away, then back at Kain. “I’m sorry, it—fuck.” The last word was strangled, and Jean looked so distraught that Kain abandoned all thought of what this puzzle was and squeezed Jean’s hand, a natural reflex to Jean’s distress.

Jean let out a breath, and leaned forward to pressed a kiss to Kain’s cheek. “I’m sorry, babe,” he said, voice rough and comfortingly close in Kain’s ear. “I’m so sorry, you lost two fingers. I’m so sorry.”

Oh.

That was…unexpected. Lost…Kain could almost feel the gears grinding in his head, slowly, clunky with disuse. Lost. Kain blinked at Jean, and that little dip was still between Jean’s brows, and his mouth was still drawn out in a grimace.

Lost.

Slowly, Kain dragged his thumbs across his fingers. Index, the one he used to drill into Jean’s chest when he was being particular stubborn. His middle finger that he dragged across the underside of Black Hayate’s jaw to have the pup close his eyes in bliss.

Then nothing.

No, not nothing. Bandages, rough against his thumb when he swiped across them, wrapped around his hand. And where his thumb should have met the fingertips of his last two fingers, he couldn’t. When he tried to grip Jean’s hand, still cradling his own, he couldn’t. The movement was awkward, and incomplete, and there was a undercurrent of panic somewhere in him that wanted to be dug up, that wanted to scream at the thought.

“Kain?”

It wasn’t that bad, really. Not his whole hand, not his arm, just two fingers. Just two. Lost.

Could he fire a gun? Would they even let him in the military anymore, with all the broken bits and pieces? He _needed_ his hands. His team relied on him to fix what they couldn’t, and he couldn’t let them down like this.

“Kain, I’m here.” Jean’s voice was gentle in his ear, and Kain looked over to him, with his kind eyes and the way he loved Kain. “I’m here now. You’re safe.”

Had he not been so tired, he might have been shaking. It was surreal to think of it; he relied on his hands. But he was so tired that the loss seemed to slip in and out of being important, in and out of being something to consider. All he could do was blink blearily at Jean, and take comfort in the fact that Jean was here, and he was safe.

Then another figure moved into his vision, blocking out the light that shone too bright overhead, and he stiffened at a new arrival, until he realised that this face, too, was familiar. Black hair, black coat, and Kain fought the urge to salute.

“Warrant Officer,” Mustang said, inclining his head slightly.

Kain lifted his head for a moment before the effort became too much, and he let it fall back down on the pillow with a soft noise, Jean fussing next to him and Mustang gesturing for Kain to lie down. Some garbled version of Mustang’s rank tried to fight its way out of Kain’s throat, and a small, slow smile spread across Mustang’s face.

“At ease,” he said, gently. “Welcome back.”

Pain dulled by drugs, and fear still floating somewhere distantly in his mind, Kain couldn’t quite manage to dig up a smile. Still, he nodded in acknowledgement, and let himself relax.

 _I’m back_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got far too impatient posting this week. for [rarepair week](http://www.fmararepairweek.tumblr.com). I had way too much fun making up stuff about Kain's parents. feedback always appreciated :)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos make me a happy camper.


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